


Airport Security

by Tseecka



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Airports, Awkward Public Contact, Bad Fashion Choices, Flirting Leik Whoa, Flustered Alistair, M/M, Modern AU, Not-entirely-innocent Alistair, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 11:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3894394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Airport queues are patently boring places--at least until the appearance of a fresh face in the security screening area provides Owen with a pleasant diversion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Airport Security

**Author's Note:**

> Owen Trevelyan belongs to [Shink](http://didntsayandrastesays.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Inspired by a recent jaunt through airport security, the horrific Avan Jogia-esque fashion choices of the man in line behind me, and Birdie's helpful "Okay but imagine--" regarding Owen, Alistair, and airport security.

Owen shuffled forward a couple of steps as the security agent directed yet another person ahead of him into a line, dragging his carry-on behind him. It jolted back to the floor as he dropped the handle, and he sighed, already frustrated with the long and winding lines of the security area. It was so inefficient, he thought, and cast a wistful eye towards the priority lines, where smartly attired business-men bypassed the queues with their specially-designated passports, all sharp creased slacks and crisp black briefcases. He shifted his passport to his other hand, flipping it open as though to check that his picture was still there; there was little else to occupy his attention, after all, besides people watching, and he'd already taken in everyone that was currently sharing the space.   
  
At least, he thought he had. As he flipped his passport closed again, tucking it into the front pocket of his shoulder bag, he caught a glimpse of a new face, and his eyebrows lifted incrementally as he took him in. Dressed in the smart polyester blues of airport security, he nonetheless stood out from his fellows due to the sheer _size_ of his wide shoulders and towering height, and the congenial smile that spread over his features where the rest wore expressions ranging from distaste to utter apathy. For the first time since standing in the _pointless_ airport lineup to check his bag—he'd checked in online, and the kiosks were perfectly capable of spitting out bag tags, they had just chosen not to that particular morning—he felt a glimmer of interest in his surroundings.   
  
His eyes scanned the waiting queue ahead of him as they all shuffled forward again, the security agent pointing a family with three small children each lugging an animal-themed suitcase towards the far line. There were only three security lines open this early in the morning—part of why it was taking them so blessed long to be processed—and he thought, if he understood the pattern correctly, he'd have a fairly good chance of ending up in the handsome officer's lineup. He kept his eyes on the man as he slowly got closer and closer to the front, until he was wordlessly handing his boarding pass and passport to the agent. She directed him to line 2 and wished him a nice day in the least enthusiastic monotone he had ever heard, but he flashed her a broad grin regardless as he yanked his suitcase along the floor to the line he'd been eyeing.  
  
He pulled one of the plastic bins down from the awkwardly leaning tower of them, toeing off his sandals as he dropped his shoulder bag inside. The sandals were tossed on top, followed by the eclectic contents of his cargo shorts' pockets and, in a surprisingly flash of memory, the chain he wore loosely around his neck. He stripped off his bracelets—they were nothing but wood and leather, but it was better to be careful—and carelessly plucked the sunglasses from atop his head, folding them and fitting them into an empty space along the side of the bin. Feet bare against the short-pile airport carpet, he pushed his bin along the rollers and stood before the scanner, eyes on the man waiting on the other side.  
  
When the officer waved him through, he flashed the man a lazy grin, and obeyed. It seemed like a reflex for the man—blond, Owen could tell for sure now, though there was a reddish tint to his hair that he would bet would look gorgeous in a Costa Rice sunset—to smile back at him, but there was an apologetic tilt to his lopsided expression. Owen knew what that expression meant. “Don't tell me—I'm the lucky winner of today's, 'Which brown-skinned tourist should we force through an awkward security screening?' contest.”   
  
The man—Owen glanced at the nametag on his breast pocket; _Alistair_ , apparently—looked pained. “Honestly, it has nothing to do with--” he began to explain, but Owen waved him off.   
  
“Don't mind me. It's early and I haven't had a cup of decent coffee. Just doing your job, right?” Alistair nodded, looking relieved that Owen wasn't going to kick up a fuss, and extended his hand to indicate a small uncomfortable looking chair off to the side.   
  
“If you want to have a seat over there, Cassandra will be over in a minute.”  
  
Owen made a split-second decision. He was about to be on a plane for eleven straight hours, with no companionship and no entertainment besides whatever tripe the airline offered on their seat-back TVs; he had to have _something_ to hold onto until he got to Costa Rica. He hissed a breath in through his teeth, an awkward grimace on his face, and kept his eyes on Alistair's cheeks to catch the flush when he replied. “Actually—could I request a same-sex agent?” He caught the eye of a severe looking woman over Alistair's shoulder—a feat he was only barely capable of, thanks to the man's frankly astonishing height. Cassandra, he presumed. She arched an eyebrow and gave him a thoroughly unconvincing smile.  
  
Alistair did indeed flush, just slightly, and nodded. “Of course.” He turned, catching Cassandra's eye, and she stepped forward to take over manning the scanner while Alistair joined Owen off to one side.  
  
“All right, then. If you want to stand with your arms out, please-- it's just a quick wave of the wand and a pat-down, we're not going to make you go through the scanner.”  
  
Owen plastered a moue of disappointment on his features. “What, you don't want to see me naked?”  
  
Alistair flushed deeper, and Owen watched with fascination as the colour slowly bled down over his neck and disappeared into the starched white collar of his shirt. Oh, this was better than any in-flight movie. “This is just a routine check, sir--”  
  
“Oh please, if we're going to be getting up close and personal—it's Owen.”  
  
“--Owen.” How far did that blush _go_ , Owen found himself wondering, and felt the grin on his face widen into something that bordered on an appreciative leer. “This is just a routine check, we'll have you on your way in a few minutes.”  
  
Owen let it alone after that, standing with legs shoulder width apart and arms spread wide. He kept his eyes firmly on Alistair's face as the man quickly ran the wand along his limbs, noting with amusement that Alistair didn't seem to know _where_ to look—keeping eye contact was obviously not an option, but he seemed to be reluctant to spend too long looking at any particular part of Owen's anatomy. Professionally reluctant, Owen decided, when he caught Alistair's eyes skating down his torso, lean muscle visible under the thin white cotton of his undershirt, and he bit his lip to keep from laughing.  
  
The wand did manage to find an errant dime in his pocket, and he set it on the chair next to him--along with a business card he'd forgotten to remove--before resuming his posture. Alistair set the wand aside and cleared his throat. “I'm just going to pat you down, now,” he informed him, and while Owen was disappointed that he didn't use his name, the absence of the removed 'sir' was gratifying.   
  
“Please do,” he said, and winked.   
  
Honestly, at this point, Alistair was well within his rights to call Owen out on sexual harrassment, but for all his awkward blushing and obvious embarrassment, he didn't seem all that eager to _stop_ , which Owen took as a good sign. He didn't reply to Owen's jibe, and set about applying his carefully professional hands to feeling for any hidden articles about his person. Owen had no idea where he could even hide something in his current attire—the short sleeves of the tropical shirt were loose around his arms, and he'd left it unbuttoned, hanging open and offensively bright against the tight knit of his undershirt. He mentioned this to Alistair as he methodically pressed the material against Owen's skin along his arms and ribs, saying, “You know, if I was hiding anything, it would probably be in my shorts.” Alistair carefully didn't respond to that, either, but there was a definite hesitance to his movements as he pressed the backs of his hands against the front of Owen's hips and down over his thighs.   
  
Owen made a small noise in the back of his throat—entirely on purpose, just to see Alistair's reaction, and he wasn't disappointed. Alistair's eyes actually _fluttered_ when they closed, though whether praying for patience or self-control was anyone's guess. Owen would put money on the latter. Warm, large hands closed about one thigh, and it was obvious now that Alistair was in a hurry to put an end to the torment. Owen, on the other hand, was enjoying himself immensely.   
  
“You know, you can take your time with that,” he told Alistair as he ran his fingers along the inside hem of the leg of his shorts. _Feeling for what, lockpicks sewn into my clothing?_ he wondered with some bewilderment. “I wouldn't want you to accidentally miss something.”  
  
No matter what he tried, though, it seemed that Alistair had finally found the fortitude to ignore his advances. It was too bad, he thought; it had been fun, and there was something in the man's eyes that made him think that if they weren't in a professional environment, Alistair might have actually been able to match wits with him on some level. As it was, the rest of the pat-down was conducted in silence, except for Alistair asking him to turn around. Owen bit his tongue and didn't tease him about “wanting a better angle”, though he did allow himself just the slightest toss of his hair. The choked off noise Alistair made from over his shoulder was worth it.   
  
When the impersonal hands left him, he turned back around, giving the security agent a wistful look. “All done, then?” he asked, and offered a genuine smile to soothe the man's obviously ruffled nerves. Alistair considered him a moment, and Owen was surprised— _really_ surprised—to see a slow smile spreading over his features that could have rivalled one of Owen's most lascivious.   
  
“No,” he said slowly, and the look was gone almost immediately, replaced by clinical detachment only slightly marred by the blush that still stained his cheeks. “I think I'm going to need you to step into the scanner, after all.”  
  
Owen's eyebrows shot nearly to his hairline, and would have gone higher if they could when the corner of Alistair's mouth twitched up in what could only be called a smirk. He stepped to one side, sweeping an arm out to indicate the large, full-body scanner that sat dormant in the center of the security screening area. _Well, well, well..._ Owen thought to himself. _Perhaps not such a prude, after all_. There was no missing the obvious reference Alistair was making; it was either a call on Owen's bluff, or a return volley of his flirtations, but either way it was unexpected and very, very appreciated.  
  
He nodded, giving a bit of a shrug. “Can't blame you—I _am_ very suspicious,” he laughed, running fingers back through his hair. He half-turned and bent to pluck up his dime, depositing it once more in his pocket, before stepping past Alistair to head to the scanner _.  
_  
“Aren't you forgetting...?” Alistair questioned, stepping over to the chair to pick up Owen's business card between two fingers. Owen saw the way his eyes flicked over the text, as though trying to memorize an entire card's worth of data in the briefest of glances, and for the first time since waking up that morning, he found himself regretting the fact that he was about to step onto a plane for two weeks in tropical paradise. _Lonely tropical paradise._  
  
“Nah. Why don't you keep that?” he answered, and gave Alistair another wink before stepping into the apparatus. Through the whirling arms of the x-ray, he saw Alistair slide the card into the pocket of his slacks, and made a quick decision to set up international roaming on his cell once he was through to the gate waiting area. Thirty bucks was a small price to pay to have a chance at seeing that smile again.


End file.
